Once and Always

by Alyssa Deane

  Walking to the window at the end of the hall, Roxane looked out of it, down into the garden and toward the darkened structure at its furthest end. She had hoped, when she sent her father to speak with Cesya, that he would convince the woman to come into the house for the night. She had no idea what passed between the two of them, her father and his mistress; she only knew he had been unnerved as a result, drinking himself into a state of inebriation that had caused him to stumble on the stairs when he had gone to his bed. Not yet asleep, she had heard him tripping up against the banister with a muttered curse before moving on.

  Downstairs, the brass bells of the clock struck the hour, a single, armored tone. In the garden, a light flared, near Cesya's tiny house, and began to move, a twinkling, swinging illumination along the pathway. Roxane leaned urgently out over the casement. There, heading away from the house, was Cesya's small shadow, with a lamp held out before her, in her hand. Was she choosing this hour to leave to go to her family? Roxane spun from the window and ran down the stairs, determined to speak to Sera's mother before the woman departed.

  Stumbling over the hem of her gown on the threshold, Roxane struck her knee on the stone of the verandah floor. Clutching her leg in silent agony, it was a moment before she could rise again. When she did, she saw the light already slipping through the parted, slatted doors of the gate. As Roxane stood, she noted that the boy who ofttimes slept by the front door since the passing of the night watchman was absent tonight. He had a friend, she knew, in the city, with whom he would sometimes tarry. The boy kept a hefty stick beside the door—in case of intruders he told her, and Roxane took this without conscious decision into her hand, limping toward the gate. Pulling her shawl closer about her shoulders, she stepped into the road outside.

  Already the swinging lantern was a good distance away, bobbing in the ink of the night. Roxane made to follow, but in her bare feet, and unaccustomed to the sharp stones and debris in the road, she did not go far.

  “Cesya!” she called in a loud whisper. She knew that the woman heard her, because her pace increased, the lantern leaping up and down, the minute light flickering as wax hissed up to vanquish the flame.

  “Cesya!” she called again. For a while longer she stood in the road, debating the wisdom of returning for her shoes and more appropriate attire to pursue the Indian woman, and soon recognizing the futility of such a plan. It would be too late. It was too late now. Cesya was gone. Roxane knew nothing of the woman's family and doubted that her father did, either. Cesya was gone, having abandoned her only child to the care of the child's father, to the care of the man whom she blamed for the danger she thought herself forced to flee. Roxane couldn't see the sense, although she was relieved that Cesya had chosen to leave Sera behind.

  Returning to the compound, Roxane resecured the gate, tapping it into place with the stout stave in her hand. Walking gingerly, she followed the white pathway of crushed shells to Cesya's door, peering inside. The woman had left a candle burning on the table, a stub only, puddling into wax in the dish. Roxane went in, standing in the center of the single room. The scent of Cesya's perfumed oils still colored the air. Recalling the woman's earlier hysteria, Roxane could not suppress a shiver. Sera's things had been piled onto the cot haphazardly, separated from Cesya's as she feverishly packed. Still, the woman had left behind a great many personal items. Apparently, she only took what she could carry with her.

  Blowing out the candle, Roxane exited the hut, latching the door. She stood a moment just outside, then turned to make her way back to the main house. As she crossed the pale stretch of garden path, she heard a noise not very far away, a scrape against the crusted paving of the walkway. In the shadow of an acacia, Roxane froze, respiration in abeyance as she strained to listen over the rushing of blood in her ears. Noiselessly, she hefted the stick in her hand. After what seemed an eternity, Roxane decided it had been nothing of consequence, a nocturnal animal moving in search of sustenance, and stepped from her hiding place.

  This, evidently, had been all he had been waiting for, for her to show herself in her white nightgown on the silvered path. While she had been listening, he could not have been more than an arm's length away. She was surprised she had not scented him, as an animal would. She turned at his approach, the club instinctively following her movement, and saw in a strange play of starlight and heightened senses the man from the bazaar, he who Ahmed had called a Pathan. The great length of the sword at his waist winked in the night.

  The club came round with random aim, striking the intruder in the general area of the shoulder, momentarily diverting his attention as he attempted to wrest it from her. She released the weapon, flipping it lengthwise, pivoting in his grip, toward his face. Hiking up her gown nearly to her waist, she turned to run. The Pathan, unfortunately, had regained his momentum all too quickly and grabbed her wrist, wrenching her back around. She opened her mouth to shout, to scream, to awaken the servants or her father, but his hand came down over her face, fingers closing over mouth and jaw, while with the other he forced her wrist behind her back, yanking her close against his body. She fought him with all of her strength, and he moved with her, rather than in opposition, so that the discomfort inflicted was minimal, but she was soon panting against his hand in near exhaustion, pushing at his broad, roughly garbed chest.

  “Roxane,” said the Pathan, and in her terror she thought, he has followed me from the bazaar, he has listened at windows, he knows my name. And then, abruptly, she ceased to struggle. He released his grip on her mouth, lowering his hand a little at a time, testing her inclination to scream.

  “Roxane,” he said again, and now she knew his voice, knew it as she did no other, in the depths of her soul.

  “Good Lord,” she whispered. Suddenly light-headed, she sank to her knees on the ground near Collier's feet.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bending, Collier scooped Roxane up into his arms like a child, carrying her back toward the hut. The heavy sword chafed his leg. Her face was buried against his neck, her hair under his jaw fragrant and soft. He paused at the door.

  “May we go in?” he whispered. “Is it empty?"

  He felt her nod. Bending at the knees, he used the hand of the arm across her back to unlatch the door, then pushed it in with his foot. Inside, he stood uncertain in the darkness, breathing in the scent of patchouli which hung heavily within, and Roxane's own lavender. Standing there, still clasping her close, feeling the rapid beat of her heart against the column of her spine, he was cognizant of certain things which had eluded him outside. Beneath the gown she wore, there was nothing more than her smooth, warm skin; in their brief struggle in the garden, the fabric had torn, and in lifting her, his hand slid through the rent, gliding beneath her legs and up over the naked curve where thigh met hip. Her hair hung unbound over his arm. Whatever had driven her into the garden, she must have come straight from her bed.

  “Put me down,” she said, quietly.

  He did so, disentangling himself from her garment. A shawl slipped off her shoulders, catching on his wrist, and he tossed it aside. The hut was very warm. He could feel the sweat start to his brow as he yanked off the headgear which had, up until now, covered a good portion of his face.

  “Roxane,” he murmured, standing near but not touching her, “I should like to sit down."

  Without speaking, she brushed past him, and he heard her shut the door. The latch fell into place. “There is a cot,” she said, “to your right. Sit there, if you wish, but be careful of the clothes upon it."

  He fumbled at his waist, releasing the tulwar from his belt and setting it aside, out of harm's way. The pistol followed. Then, slowly, he followed the directions Roxane had given him, until his shin bumped up against the rope-and-wood bed frame. Feeling about on the top for the clothing she had mentioned, he moved them all to one side and sat down. Roxane remained somewhere on the carpet, out of reach and out of sight. He could barely hear her breathing, nor the slight whisper of her gown's sof
t fabric.

  “Why are you dressed in that fashion?"

  Collier smiled. Roxane, always practical, would not ask the question which might burn uppermost in her mind, but the one which logic dictated be answered first. Prevarication had no benefit, between the two of them, now. Indeed, it never had.

  “Intelligence,” he said. “I perform dual service, Roxane. In addition to my service in the Bengal Army, I work for Lord Canning. I have on several occasions over the last month been into this area, for one reason and another, during which time, I have taken the opportunity to assure myself of your wellbeing."

  How she accepted this information, he could not, in the blackness, discern. He sat very still, despite the weary ache between his shoulder blades, with his arms along his thighs and his hands clasped loosely between his knees, listening for any change in the cadence of her respiration, any sign of anger or distress, or merely that she had drawn closer to him.

  “There are men in this city whom I have come to trust, and who have aided me in that endeavor,” he added.

  She did move then; he was made aware of it in the subtle, scented draft upon the air. Yet he could not tell where she had gone until she spoke, close enough that he might have touched her, had he dared.

  “Would one of those men be the grandnephew of the King of Delhi, by chance?"

  She spoke softly, flatly, her tone masking deeper emotions.

  “He is truly your friend, Roxane,” he assured her. “There is no subterfuge involved in that. But I have known him since before he was sent away to Europe for his education. Learning of your relationship, I requested his assistance."

  “You had Ahmed give me the pistols."

  “Yes."

  She was silent a long time. Since he could not see her, he was uncertain which way her thoughts were taking her, and merely waited.

  “Thank you,” she uttered at last.

  “You are welcome, Roxane,” he said, shifting his weight on the cot. “It seemed the best course, to teach you to protect yourself, as I could not guarantee I would be here to do so."

  “Of course,” she said. “What with the fuse ready to be lit, so to speak, among the regiments, and ... and Olivia needing your protection elsewhere."

  “Olivia?"

  He sat up straight, his muscles screaming in protest.

  “Yes, Olivia,” she stated, apparently annoyed that he was requiring further explanation from her. “As your wife, she is entitled to believe her husband would think first of her wellbeing, not of the woman he courted in her absence, not of the woman he claimed to love and to whom he proposed when he was half into his cups one starry, foolish night. Proposed to, when he was not at leisure to do so. No!” She cried as he stood up from the cot, extending his hands toward her. She backed up, and he heard her stumble, with a soft expulsion of air, over the edge of the carpet. “I can understand a man pursuing the course of honor; I can understand you wishing to marry a woman such as Olivia Waverly; I can possibly understand you seeking company elsewhere, in her long absence; I can even understand that it was me you chose to pursue. But I cannot comprehend how I was so fooled, nor why you lied."

  “Lied?” he echoed.

  “Yes! By omission, but a falsehood nonetheless. Why didn't you tell me the truth? If you loved me at all, Collier, why did you not tell me the truth?"

  She was crying now, and this alarmed him more than anything, for he knew she was not prone to tears. Grabbing blindly, he snagged the shoulder of her gown, bunched the material into his fingers, and drew her close, inexorably closer, until she was wrapped in his embrace. She hit him, twice, with her closed fist against his chest, but without force. He folded her into the circle of his arms, and would not let her go.

  “Roxane,” he whispered, “Roxane, I know it was wrong to keep silent, but I had hoped to settle the matter long before ever we met, and when that did not occur, long before it would have become a point between the two of us. I do so love you, Roxane. Nothing has changed that."

  “Nothing?” She laughed, a bitter noise. “You are married, Collier Harrison. I would say that changes everything."

  Collier grew still above her, stroking the length of her unbound hair down her back. “Who told you this?” he asked.

  “That you were wed?” Roxane countered, lifting her head so that he could see her eyes, the glimmer of tears in their glass-green depths, illuminated by the faint, lately risen scimitar of a white moon shining through the window. “Rose sent me the article from the paper, announcing the engagement and the date."

  “And did you not receive the telegraph I sent you?"

  Roxane pulled back, tipping her head to one side.

  “No,” she said. “When?"

  He urged her to the cot and sat her down, lowering himself beside her, so that they faced each other in the moonlight, his right knee touching her left.

  “Roxane,” he said, “I am surprised that Unity did not write to tell you, though I suppose there is no reason why she would have done so. It was not publicized, for Olivia's sake, and Unity might never have heard. The engagement was called off, after much legal wrangling. A settlement was made upon Olivia which equals nearly a year's salary for me. But I do not begrudge it to her. In fact, she was more than willing, once she understood. Naturally, Rose would have avoided any mention to you of this. What fun would that be? As soon as it was settled, I had a telegraph sent to you, requesting your permission to come speak with you, here. When I had no response from you, and later when ... when it was mentioned to me that you had found another..."

  “Found another? Who, for God's sake?” Roxane was incredulous.

  Collier laughed self-consciously at his own idiocy.

  “What difference does it make, now? I knew that I had hurt you and I did not blame you for turning away. Still, I had to keep you safe, if I could."

  “Then ... then you are not wed?"

  He laughed again, a heartfelt indulgence, and took Roxane's face between his hands.

  “No, sweetheart, I am not wed. That is what I have been saying. I love you, Roxane,” and he lifted her, with a convulsive movement, into his lap. Her nightdress slid up, above her knees. He tucked his hand behind them, pulling them close against his chest. He opened his mouth against her hair.

  “Marry me, Roxane. If you still love me, marry me, I beg you."

  Roxane buried her head beneath his chin, plucking at the loose threads on his shirt. In the moonlit room, he caressed her back, stroked her hair, circled with the tips of his fingers gently behind her knees, where her flesh was smooth and seemed remarkably sensitive. She wriggled a little in his arms, and made a sound he had not heard before.

  “When? When would that be?” she asked, the barest whisper.

  The scented heat of her skin was an intoxicant, stealing his breath away. He traced the curve of her calves with his fingers, encircling one ankle with his hand. With the other hand, he smoothed the hair back behind her ears. He kissed her, on the mouth, then on the chin, then just below the jawline, where the pulse beat rapidly. She turned her head, and he pressed his lips against her throat. She made another sound, much like the first, and he closed his eyes.

  “Will tomorrow be soon enough, my love?"

  She breathed, fitting snugly into the firm grasp of his arm.

  “I don't ... I don't really think so,” she said.

  His hands circled about her waist, turning her slowly, compelling her, after a small struggle with her gown, up onto her knees. She faced him across a minute distance created by the angle of his bent leg. He moved his thumbs in a series of caresses over her stomach, following the arching bone of her rib cage. She drew several quick breaths without ever fully releasing the one preceding. Beneath the gauzy fabric of her gown, her breasts lifted, the delicate outline of her raised nipples visible in the moonlight.

  “Roxane, dear,” he whispered hoarsely, “were I a better man, I would leave now."

  The color of her eyes had gone smoky, nearly as dark as
his own, briefly glimpsed before she lowered her lashes, slightly tilting her head. A smile, a cat's smile, played about her lips. He was put in mind, suddenly, of the night he had watched her from the garden outside the Stantons’ bungalow, and the way she had moved, trailing the weeping, cool glass over her skin in an execution of astonishing sensuality that had, even then, been his undoing. He loved her unequivocally; his desire to make love with her was staggering.

  “You have only to say no, Roxane—"

  Her fingers, which had been lying, warm, upon his arm, traced a silky path along his skin to his wrist, curving over the place where his pulse beat.

  “I have no illusions,” she said. “I do not believe we can marry so quickly, but that you will soon depart from me, to duty. The state of affairs precludes otherwise. Tonight"—and she lifted his hand, pressing her lips into his calloused palm—"tonight,” she repeated, turning her cheek into the curve of his fingers within her own, “I will set my foot to that path unexplored, for though my mind cannot see what lies ahead, my body bids me follow, as it seems to know the way."

  Roxane leaned down to him, pressing her mouth to his own as she had done that long ago night of the Government House ball, a languid demonstration of promised passion. He slid his hands up along her sides, under her arms, where he hesitated, fearful that she did not truly understand where this path was leading. She pushed against him, as will a cat when being stroked, and he did just that, lightly passing his cupped hand around the fullness of her breast, stroking her nipple with his fingers.

  “Oh!” A soft exclamation, of surprise and pleasure, but not of protest. Slipping his left arm behind her back, he wriggled about to his own knees, pulling her close at the waist and hips, with a slight pressure against her upper body. She leaned back into the curve of his arm; he took her breast in his hand and lifted it toward his mouth, teasing the nipple gently through the gauze of her gown with his teeth, refusing to release it even when her fingers tightened on his arms and a slow exhalation spiraled down into a throaty sound of delight. His own concupiscence was evident in the confinement of the native trousers, straining against rough cloth.